


Laws Most Numerous

by ienablu



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: M/M, Mirror Universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-27
Updated: 2014-08-27
Packaged: 2018-02-15 02:11:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2211873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ienablu/pseuds/ienablu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You are the senior most HYDRA operative in the country, and when Nick Fury asks you not to give him a direct order, you don’t.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Laws Most Numerous

You are the senior most HYDRA operative in the country, possibly on the continent. Recovering an embassy of hostages is not the most trying operation you have had to maneuver, though concern for your daughter's safety is making you cautious.

The deputy chief of the nearest HYDRA outpost stands with you through the briefing, listens as you sketch out the beginnings of your plan, then tells you, "Don't give me a direct order."

You don't ask why. 

You don't trust Nick Fury, but you've seen his file, and you trust what he can do.

You don't give him any orders, and thus he is not going against orders when he crawls through the sewers to save twelve political officials, twenty-six civilians, and your daughter.

 

\- - -

 

Years later when your daughter is old enough to understand the importance of what Nick did, she asks you when his birthday is, and sends him an effusive birthday card every year. A Christmas card as well, after Nick quoted Ezekiel during a cocktail party your daughter had begged admittance to.

You know Nick sends her a thank you card for each of the cards he receives. You did not know that he keeps each of the cards she sends him, pressed between the pages of old art books on the bottom shelves of his bookcases, not until Rumlow inquired about them after bugging his apartment.

Neither you nor Nick are sentimental men, though you wonder who the artist is, what pictures the envelopes lie between. You wonder, had Nick been careless enough to keep the letters you had been careless enough to send him, where those envelopes would have gone.

 

\- - -

 

World Security Councilman was not your boyhood dream, and you would not have even considered the position, had Nick not asked. But you know and understand one another, you trust what he can do, and you imagine the reverse is true for him.

Your relationship is not perfect, for the limited capacity in which it exists. The Council and HYDRA take up every moment of the day, with few days falling between the cracks. Those that do belong to your daughter first, your wife second; what you have with Fury falls third. It accumulates as three to three and a half hours, every four to six months, in a luxury hotel room. You enjoy a well-aged single malt whiskey and wearing familiar tracks in each other.

You do not talk while you fuck. Not about his volumes of Rembrandt landscapes, his mother’s upcoming twenty-fifth anniversary, your disused balcony seats at the Metropolitan, your upcoming divorce.

No time to talk at work either, for you rarely see each other, outside the threat of nuclear war or alien invasion. It is an arrangement, or lack of, that has developed this past decade. You enjoyed it then more than you enjoy it now.

When the next charity event you are strongly encouraged to attend is announced, you pass along a remark to your secretary to pass along to Nick’s secretary. For all the inter-Council politics sometimes wear, and you are growing frustrated of the Council’s lack of forward planning, you do enjoy this perk: open invitations to cocktail parties and charity events where crisp champagne flows like a fountain and there's no end to the fresh caviar on toast points. 

You can hear Captain America's laugh ring through the ballroom as he enters. Captain America has emerged as a regular at charity events; and if he only shows up at the parties you do, it's only to be expected, with him as the poster boy for HYDRA.

You are pleased with the Captain’s good humor, and with Nick’s presence at the open bar. His track record for these types of events has made his disinterest in politicking quite clear, and you had your doubts regarding his attendance.

"Director Fury," you greet as you approach him.

"Councilman," he replies. He glances around the room. "We work forty floors away from each other. If you wanted to talk, you could have just come and said something."

"It's a two way street, Nick," you tell him. You order a scotch.

“Not a whiskey?” It’s the closest to an admission either of you have made, and the closest to an invitation Nick has ever extended.

“Maybe later.” It’s a possibility. Careless, but Nick brings that out of you.

Later comes, and your order of whiskey goes down smooth. You gather your wool coat from an attendant, and you and Nick ride down to the ground floor in silence. Nick’s position as the director of HYDRA allows you to dismiss your security detail. Rumlow is reluctant, as you knew he would be. He doesn’t trust Nick, and he doubts if you trust him.

You don’t. You want to, of course, but you know him too well. Your suspicions have been building over the years, more steeply as the need for trust has deepened.

 It’s raining when you step out, a light drizzle more than anything else. You take the umbrella your dismissed driver offers you, and don’t question where Nick got his.

The day had been cold for late August, and the rain has cooled the night even further. You button your coat, though you don’t anticipate it will stay on for far too much longer. The traffic is scarce, as you and Nick walk down the street, dress shoes pattering against the rain on the sidewalk.

You are uncertain of your destination; one of your favorite hotels is two blocks down, and your house is a few more past that. There’s no one there waiting at your house, nothing but a good whiskey, and the inevitable surveillance bugs. It’s not a good idea, but it’s a possibility.

You approach a streetlight, _don't walk_ gleaming at you in orange.

Nick looks to his left, his right, and his left again. He steps into the crosswalk, bathed in the red glare from the stoplight as he walks across the empty street.

You wait, patiently, for the light to turn, and for the crosswalk to prompt you to walk.

Nick has turned and is waiting for you.

You are, briefly, angry. Puddles of rain reflect green as you take your time to walk down the crosswalk. You wonder if it's worth it to remind him that jaywalking is illegal. For men in your stature, you can't afford even a small misstep. Laws exist to protect, to keep some semblance of order.

But you already know what his response would be, as he knows what your subsequent reply would be. It has been a hypothetical argument between the two of you in the aftermath of Council hearings. A part of you mourns the hypothetical becoming actual, even as you start to sketch the beginnings of your plan.

"Sorry," Nick says, as you start down the street again. He is apologizing to you, but not for his actions, and you wouldn't expect anything else. Your pace starts off in sync, but before half a block you’re walking in counter step to each other.

Your phone rings, a blaring drone in the stillness of the night. You check the caller ID, and it’s Rumlow. You sigh.

“I’ll have to take a raincheck,” you tell Nick, as a black security sedan pulls up next to you.

 

\- - -

 

During the days, and thankfully most nights, Captain America holds himself together. These are good days, and good nights.

The bad nights are becoming frequent. Your methods for keeping him under control are methods that are tried and true, and it aggravates your science division when his control lapses. Yourself as well. It's a closely-guarded secret, and it's getting difficult to maintain.

He's in your living room when you arrive home. The blinds are pulled down, and members of your most elite HYDRA STRIKE team are standing point around the room and down the hallways. 

You hand your jacket to one as you pass.

You look at Rumlow, standing guard behind Bucky's chair. 

He nods. No signs of violence or erratic behavior. Good.

"Hey, Bucky," you greet, smiling at him as you sit down on the coffee table in front of him.

He looks at you, and blinks rapidly. His breathing is too labored for him to speak.

You frown. "I'm disappointed, Bucky," you tell him. He winces. "I thought you were having a good night."

"I'm sorry," Bucky says, his voice thick. "I'm–" He swipes his palm over his face. "I'm sorry."

"What was it?" you ask, gently. Some casual comments can remind him of all the years he spent in the ice. Those episodes are far easier to deal with, for everyone involved. More specific remarks regarding Bucky's past present a greater challenge. Every time the world has changed under HYDRA, it has changed for the better, and Bucky has difficulty understanding that, despite their frequency of reminding him.

Bucky is staring down at his hands. They're shaking harshly. "They mentioned Steve."

You sigh. "Oh, Bucky."

Bucky looks up at you. He blinks and tears streak down his face. "Please – I don't – I'm sorry–"

You stand up, and set a hand down on his shoulder. It's a light touch, but he still flinches. "You don't need to apologize," you tell him. "You're going through a difficult time, Bucky, but we're here to help you."

He whimpers.

To Rumlow, you say, "Prep him."

 

\- - -

 

You take your raincheck two nights later, at your house, despite Rumlow’s protests and Nick’s suspicions. But you like your house, and if Nick doesn’t like it, he at least likes Renata. They talk in Serbian as she finishes up her cleaning, and she manages to startle a laugh out of Nick, an impressive feat you haven’t managed in at least two years.

“Apparently my accent is terrible,” Nick says.

“I could’ve told you that,” you reply. Serbian is one of the languages you never grasped, but you have always had an ear for languages and dialects. Nick’s is terrible.

It gets a snort of laughter out of him, and his reply contains many iterations of the word Renata had repeated when she nearly knocked over one of your vases. You lobby back the crudest insult in Korean that you know.

Nick laughs.

In all your decades together, you have never loved Nick. At first out of precaution, given the high kill rate of HYDRA agents, and out of habit after that. You love fucking him and being fucked by him; you love the work he does and his dedication to HYDRA.

You’ve made peace with losing the latter, and you will make peace with losing the former.


End file.
